Walking on Thin Ice
by KeshaRocks
Summary: Michael is a rebel hero hired to hunt down a criminal hiding in the kingdom of Arendelle. Rumors say someone was hired to assassinate Queen Elsa and Princess Anna. Along with needing to protect the sisters, Michael needs to find out who hired the assassin and if there is a conspiracy going on in the kingdom to kill the sisters. Elsa/OC
1. Prologue

My mother was rarely home, so it was my father who actually taught me how to use a bow. He took me out hunting a lot when I was little.

In a clearing within the bowels of the woods, there are targets set up in different ranges. They were the standard bull's-eyes with three rings of red. A man dressed in black and leather loads an arrow into a bow forged out of midnight ebony. Facing the targets, he loads an arrow. He pulls the string back and after a few seconds, release it.

It's a bull's-eye.

He would dote on me constantly, teaching me how to hunt and use the family forge. He always said that composure was the key to a successful archer. If you can remain calm, even in the midst of chaos, your arrow will most likely find its target.

He loads another arrow. He releases the arrow, and it lands centimeters next to the first. Pulling the string back, he aims higher, thinking of the arc that arrows have. With this in mind, he focuses his eyesight and releases the string. The arrow hits the bull's-eye. He smiles as warm triumph boils through his veins.

"_Alright son, you can have the best technique and form in the world, but it won't mean a thing if you can't focus. The key to using any weapon, is focus. If you can keep your composure and trust that each shot is true, then you should be able to quickly handle multiple targets_."

He sheathes his bow and takes several paces back so that from the farthest target, he's at least forty yards.

Mom would make the best venison chop I ever tasted. Which from where I'm from isn't much, but it was luxury for me. My father made a living forging weaponry. We lived under the iron fist of a cruel and domineering king who didn't take any nonsense from anyone. He kept the kingdom under a strict curfew, and anyone caught about after hours was killed on sight.

"_Often times you won't be able to get close to your prey as you'd like and you'll have to settle with a long shot. However with such a long shot, it's more than likely that's the only shot you'll be able to take before your prey runs off. If you find yourself in such a situation, then you need to make your shot count. Don't rush your shot. Crouch down, get comfortable, and take aim._"

How I miss him so.

I remember him telling me I'd make a fine smith one day. Things seemed perfect.

Until his great passion if what ended his life.

The sky was on fire. The flames reached into the sky, pushing forth massive fists of smoke, swallowing everything in their path. Even the moon. I screamed, stumbling back and onto the ashen ground. I coughed as clouds billowed up around me. They shift and shaped in grey swirls, looking like hands desperately clawing at me to pull me under. The ground had turned to swamp. Burned ashen ground that has been drenched by the rains that preceded the fire. If only it had rained that day.

There was a rebellion against our king. Rebels filled the streets like rats. While my parents did believe in their cause, they preferred to solve without violence.

Soldiers came storming into the house. Mother desperately clung to me as the guards accused my father of aiding the rebels. My father was an innocent man. It didn't matter. One guard clobbered him over the head and dragged his unconscious body out the door. Mother was screaming, weeping. The guards came for us next. I was terrified; immobilized by my fear. I was dragged out with my mother to the castle courtyard, where the chopping block was ready, and the headsman standing in wait.

My mother screamed and fought to guards while I stood idly by. I screamed into gritted teeth, frustrated. I couldn't help. I was worthless.

Guards held my mother as my father was dragged to headsman's block. He fought them the whole three yards away from me. They forced my father downward, face first, his nose bleeding as he turns his head. Mt mother was too busy fighting and screaming to think of me. I was blocked by two guards who had their arms crossed in an X in front of me. One of them mumbled, "Look away, son."

But I didn't listen. He wasn't my father.

The headsman raised his axe, and it rained down towards my father. Blood surged from his neck, staining the blade of the axe and arching through the air. A path of blood spread over his shoulder. I blinked, and the violent red stains the inside of my eyelids. I blinked again, and I see my father's eyes beaming with pride as I kill my first deer.

His head rolls into a wicker basket and his body slumps to the side. I could just see a piece of white bone sticking out of his neck. He was motionless, without breath, and without a head.

"Dad," I said. I meant for it to be a shout, but it was just a wheeze.

I clamped my hands over my mouth and screamed into my palms. My cheeks were hot wand wet with tears I didn't feel beginning.

My mother wailed like a dying animal and called the guards vicious names. She ended up stomping on one of the guard's foot and wrenched herself free. Within two steps, she was surrounded and they dragged her towards the block.

"Mom!" that time I screamed.

My blood was ringing in my ears, and everything was muffled, so when she was screaming at me, I couldn't make out any distinct words. But only three managed to register.

Get out! Run!

I turned away just as her head was forced to hit the block. I sprinted at full speed away from the scene. The guards shouted at me, but none give chase. My blood cried out that it belongs to my parents, and struggled to return to them, and I hear my mother's words. Get out. Run.

Run. Run. Run.

I scrambled to rush to the village. I could hear the screams, mixed with the rogue screeching of pain and the unrelenting roar of the flames.

My body had brought me to our house. But I stopped. Everything was burning, everything ablaze. I dropped to my knees in front of my house. The screams of people piercing my ears, even greater than the flames, and more traumatizing.

I wanted to call out, call my father, my mother, anyone. But somehow I had lost my voice; and was unsure whether it was due to the suffocating smoke or the horror.

One by one, I watched the homes of my neighbors, of my friends and family, surrender to the flames. And in the worst of circumstances, many of those friends and relatives surrendered as well, eaten alive by the flames in the very home where I was born. My throat felt tight, crammed with the scream and wailing of grief.

Pain stabbed through me as everything I am made of collapsed, my entire world dismantled in a moment. My eyes burned and I was too weak to rise; the scent of smoke and sweat made me feel sick. I wanted to rest my head on the ground and let that be the end of it. I wanted to sleep now and never wake up.

Something like that just doesn't happen to an average thirteen year old. And it shouldn't.

Fresh tears filled my eyes, causing the world to swim. I blinked and they fall searing the skin of my already raw cheeks. Shutting my eyes tight, I willed the tide of despair welling up within me to subside. A sob rises from the depths, but I caught it before it could escape. I swallowed hard, forcing it down.

It felt like drowning.

Grief was a yawning pit of darkness blooming at my core. I could hardly stand beneath its weight.

_I can't bear this. I can't_.

The piercing pain of loss is a double-edged blade I couldn't bear to touch. How could I grieve for them? Cry for them? Bleed for them inside when it won't change anything? It won't change anything.

They're gone.

They're _gone_.

All the words I never found time to say. All the things we never found time to do. Ripped from me with merciless finality.

Gone.

But I'm not gone. I was still there. Deep inside, I heard the anguished wailing – the wordless kneeing of unbearable grief.

I couldn't stand to hear it. To feel it. To let it live. A yawning pit of darkness within me opened wide, whispering promises to take the pain. Swallow the loss. Make it possible to draw a breath without choking on the shattered pieces no one will ever fix. Loss is a gaping hole with jagged teeth, and I can't bear it. The wall of grief inside me slowly subsided into a well of icy silence – deafening and absolute. It rips me in two, cutting him off from everything I can't stand to face.

But I remembered my father telling me to be rave one day while we were out hunting. And my mother shouting at me to run.

Somehow I stand. Fury is a welcome companion, warming me with something that feels like comfort. Revenge takes energy. I can't break until the King is dead. Because my parents gone. And I'm still here. I embrace my rage. Let it sink into my secret spaces and make me its own until I'm a stranger beneath my skin. I wear armor on the inside, a metal forged of fury and silence, cutting me off from myself.

This is how it feels when you're bent and broken. This is how it feels when your dignity's stolen. But I learned, when everything you love is leaving, you hold onto what you believe in.

I am no longer a son. I'm no longer a boy with dreams. With hope.

I'm a weapon now.

Feeling nothing but rage and resolve makes me stronger.

My parents did not die in vain. I made sure of it.

Joining up with the rebellion, I was the blacksmith until I was old enough to recruit. I forged my own armor and weapons and renamed myself.

A new name. A new place. I could be remade.

I made an emblem for myself and stitched it to the front of my leather armor. Every inch of my skin is wrapped in black cloth, and a cowl that covers the lower half of my face. Over my black tunic, a leather vest to reinforce protection over my vital organs. Boots with padded soles for sneaking. A leather holder straps to my waist to hold my family's serrated dagger and throwing daggers, and a shield slung on my back, over a sheath of arrows divided into two quivers. One sheath contains broadhead arrows with arrowheads that can cut through any metal, then the other of arrows I forged to explode on impact. And my father's archery gloves.

Then about my shoulders is a black cloak that pools on the ground as if it were made of liquid darkness, yet when I stepped back, it immediately snapped erect and wrapped about my sides.

Proving myself through the rankings, my insurgent nature earned me the right to lead the final invasion into the King's castle. Troops would storm the courtyard while I invaded by rooftop. The king would be so focused on the invading troops, attacks from above were the last on his mind. Plus, with its slanted rooftops and towering turrets with three or more guards inside on patrol, his confidence was overbearing.

We had already taken one turret and leaving the guards inside, I sprinted across the lips of the wall while my brothers in rebel distracted the others. I leapt across the wall and onto the smaller turret inside the courtyard. I slinked between a buttress and the slant of the roof, peeking over the edge. Metal clanged and men screamed and hollered. I raced further still until I found the King's balcony. I slipped to the overhang where a guard stood posted. Spinning my blade, I jump down and pierce it in his right shoulder. He dropped to the floor and I yanked the blade free and snuck into the castle dour.

The entire hall was soaring and grand. A monstrously hug oil painting, a portrait of the King, hung over the flying staircase seemingly supported only by the air itself. Tiered crystal chandeliers were dripping from the ceiling. The hall was thick with clusters of antique furniture, small grapping of intricately embroidered chairs, marble tabletops, and graceful ferns. A candle glowed on every surface. Tall, shuttered doors were thrown open; the breeze carried the scent of gardenias, which were arranged in tall silver vases, artfully placed on the tabletops.

My footsteps went mute as they sank into plush gold and black carpeting. The walls were lined with shelves decorated with colorful glass knickknacks and boats. Tall floor candelabrums with fancy flat bowls accented the space. Scanning the walls, I could find no other windows. Old-fashioned threadbare tapestries depicting medieval knights, nobles, and ladies hung in their place over the decorative walls.

A plush Persian carpet runner ran the length of the floor beneath his feet, while tall curio cabinets full of strange artifacts like gold scarabs, foreign ankhs, and bleached animal skulls lined the walls on either side of me.

I finally came to a door and peeked through the keyhole to find the King speaking with the Captain of the Guard. I saw the King smiling and chuckling while the Captain leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Anger blazes within me and I step back and knock. I hear the muffled reply of the Captain, "Come in."

I climb the long hallway table and position myself against the doorframe, hovering over the doorway. The Captain orders again to come in. finally when the door opens. I slip inside and toss a water filled flask towards the fire. The King is startled and as the Captain turns, I slammed the door shut and locked it. He pounded with fury fists and ordered whoever it was to open the door.

The King carefully rotates in a circle, ordering whoever is there to show himself. I stuck to the shadows; wisps of the darkness floating off my body like smoke. Shadows danced around the room. They grow in volume and swarm together, grow volume and mass, and then I finally step forward into the rays of the icy moonlight.

"What, what do you want?!" The King demanded.

"You killed my parents." I answered.

My dagger plunged into his back. He shrieked. He twisted to one side, hoping to keep the blade from pushing in farther, but then my hand grabbed head and slammed it against the mantle. Spurts of blood splatter across the fine marble.

I yanked the dagger out. The King clutched his arms against his chest, rocking back and forth as pain shot though his body. Warm blood ran down his spine.

"Hello, your majesty." I said as I twirled in my left hand the bloody dagger, flecks splattering across the carpet.

"You filthy vermin! How dare you! I'll see to it you rot for eternity in the -"

I grabbed his hand and thrust my family's dagger through his palm. To the King's credit, he didn't scream.

"You wrongfully killed my parents." I hissed.

"You're a fool. I only sought to rid this city of its wrongdoers."

The King coughed. With hoe wet his cough sounded, I knew I had pierced his lung. It wasn't fatal, not yet . . .

"My parents weren't the only victims. You've killed hundreds of innocence lives; all because of your stupid paranoia!"

I yanked the dagger out and then rammed it back downward, this time penetrating his wrist. He screamed.

"You can't make me disappear. I've learned all your tricks, and I can hurt you from inside. I'll make you suffer. This hell you've put me through."

The King coughed and twitched.

I yanked my dagger out and thrust for his chest. It penetrated clothes, and into the King's chest burying up to the hilt. Blood runs down my wrists and I watch as the King's body slacks. The blood slid off my robes like water.

I left his body for dead and walked out to the balcony for my cue. I watched the men fight before I ignited one of my explosive arrows. I aimed high and let the string fly. Once it was at the center of the courtyard, it exploded and showered down in streams of smoke. The fighting seemed to have ceased for a moment, like a withheld breath.

Then the shouting began.


	2. Chapter 1

_7 years later_

Spring is in the air as flowers bloom on trees and a nip in the air levels the humidity of the day collides with the coastal breeze. Villagers are about their business, selling goods and marrying with one another. Children follow a dog that has snatched a handkerchief and now runs down the cobblestone boardwalk.

From the backstory he overheard, the princess was apparently kidnapped as a child, recently reunited with her real parents. She's beloved and is the epitome of the kingdom; despite her marrying a retired thief. Due to a new order in the officer ranks, the crime in the kingdom vanished in half overnight.

Atop the roof of a local parlor shop, Michael gazes upon the people. The Kingdom of Corona has proven to be quite the merry of most. There's a level of, equality that he never sees in most other kingdoms. It would seem most seem to make a good living if they're willing to work hard. Yet this shouldn't denture the thieves that crawl beneath the city.

Crouching down, Michael rests one elbow on his knee and gazes at the streets. His black hood conceals his face as shadows obscure the features. He looks left and right, though the north end seems secure. Usually the south edge was the worst parts of town. But as he finished the thought, a scream erupts from the town square. Michael rises from his position and pivots right, bolting at a full sprint.

He vaults across rooftops and forward flips over planks. He focuses on his breathing and heartbeat as he nears the cathedral's belltower located in the Sought Edge. It wasn't that far a rooftops to get to the square, and it provided him a high view over the heads of onlookers. He reaches the top and steps around the bell and settles on a gargoyle overlooking the square.

By now a crowd has gathered, though none intervene. They are blocked off by wooden barricades. Some cheer and pump their fists in the air. Others gaze in confusion and worry. It takes Michael a moment to realize most of the shouting comes from men. Upon a closer look, he can see why.

A young girl was blindfolded and shackled to the wall with the intricate mosaic of the royal family. She was a pretty thing with cream-colored skin, red hair that falls to her shoulders in waves, and dazzling violet eyes. She was naked, and possibly unconscious. She wasn't moving, and it appears her body is trying to slack to her knees, but the shackles won't allow it.

Michael can see one guard order the other to wake her, as he watches him rustle and then something sharp, like a needle, stabs the tip of the girl's forefinger. She cries out. The sound was just barely coming out of her mouth before a fist struck her. Blood dribbles down her lips.

That was enough.

Michael rises from his position and as the bell chimes noon, his shadow is gone.

He's then on the ground just on the outer perimeter of the mob. Normally, he wouldn't intervene with duties of the royal court, but these men weren't guards. Michael could tell by the dirt stains on their uniforms, and bits of blood around the collar; normally not noticed by the average citizen. Also, their swords. For some odd reason, the guards around the kingdom had switched to frying pans as better weapons. These men carried steel swords, and stood before the girl as if she is a peasant in the presence of a man who owned the world.

One guard yanks the blindfold off the girl's face. She looks to her captors. Three guards in total were surrounding her while citizens gathered. Michael tries to listen to their conversations.

"What's going on?" one woman asks.

"Public humiliation." A man answers.

"Oh my, what did she do?"

"Who cares?! Free show!" a drunkard shouts.

Michael expects to see the girl cower in fear and try to cover any of her private areas, but she glares at the men with a look of absolute loathing. She was tough, he'll give her that. She tries to turn her head to spit, but the shackles around her head and neck prevented it. She spits the blood from her mouth. It dribbles down her neck and between her breasts.

A giant muscular man stands beside the main guard. Ordering the muscular man to clean her off, Michael places his hand on the hilt of his family's dagger. The giant obliged, cleaning the blood from her chest and neck with a clean rag. Michael expects him to fondle the girl's breasts or let his fingers linger on her neck, but the man did no such thing.

Michael watches as the main guard approaches the girl with a sort of cocky walk. His smile suggested he held all the power, and with his hand on the hilt of his sword showed he is prepared to strike at any sudden movements. He says something to the girl. She replies, and the man's fist smashes into her face. The giant's rag is there immediately, soaking in the blood she spat. The rage coupled with kindness only confused Michael more.

Still, he carefully weaves his way through the crowd; nudging people aside, getting closer to the front.

"You're smart, strong, and beautiful." the guard says. "But you should know that no one crosses me!"

He gazes at her, his eyes lingering over her chest. He runs his fingers along the girl's shoulder, the tickles her chin. The girl struggles against her chains. A look of disgust contorts her face into a snarl. Now Michael knows why they've stripped her naked. The girl pulls so hard on her bindings that her wrists bled. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

"Ooh, no, no, no." he whispers. "Don't cry."

"Fuck you." The girl whispers back.

He laughs, but not at all bothered. She is shackled and helpless. He had all day. He presses the tip of his dagger against her right eyebrow. Michael sees him lean in and whispers something in her ear. Michael begins to nudge people aside and weave his way through the crowd to the front. The guard presses his dagger into her flesh. Blood trickles around her eye. She blinks against its sting.

"All day," Michael hears the man say as she slowly drags the dagger downward "I have all day."

Michael increases his speed towards the mosaic. Shoving any person aside that gets in his way.

He cut her eyebrow, her eyelid, and then her eye. She screams.

People scream and cheer. The bell tower chimes.

The guard rams his mouth over hers, drinking in her scream like it's a fine wine. He pulls back, smiles at her, and then flies to the side from a brutal kick to the head. He rolls along the hard ground stopping only when he strikes the wall.

Michael now stands before the crowd, who has fallen dead silent. He has half the mind to shout that the men are fraud, but he can't bring himself to shatter the silence. So he only draws another dagger from his belt.

The giant man roars as he swings his sword, barreling towards Michael. The other readies his sword and sneers. The first guard slashes his sword as Michael's chest. Michael parries it with the dagger in his left hand, steps closer, and then cuts across the man's face with his right. Blood splashes on his arm, but slides off like water. The man howls as the tip hooks the underside of his eye. His companion lunges, forcing Michael back and preventing a killing blow. The wounded man clutches his face with his free hand, glaring with his good eye. The other man strikes again, a weak thrust that reveals just how green he is. Michael bats the man's sword aside, slashes his wrist, and then hurls his dagger. Michael can kill a man from a rooftop. Standing mere feet away, the man has no chance. The dagger strikes just above his gorget, and he gargles out a few unintelligible words as he collapses.

A great cry rises up as women shriek in horror.

Knowing his time is short, Michael presses an attack on the wounded soldier. The man parries a couple of Michael's stabs, his movements awkward from clutching his face with his other hand. Michael curls about him, always drifting to his wounded side, until one of his blocks comes in to early. Michael's daggers sinks into the flesh of his throat and stomach. Gasping, the man falls and dies.

As puddles of blood pool under their bodies, and citizens gasp and scream in terror, Michael sheathes one dagger keeping the serrated one in hand, and approaches the girl. Now she fidgets in fear and tries to wriggle her wrists out of the bindings; they scrape against her wounds and she grits her teeth. Behind him, the crowd wails and holler things towards him to get away from her.

Michael crouches to her level, and she turns her head to the side as far a she could, tears streaming down her already raw cheeks. Michael puts his free hand against the vicious wound on the girl's face, his fingers gently touching the flesh. Blood pools across the cloth around Michael's fingers, yet it is not absorbed into it. The girl gasps at his touch, a shuddering breath escaping her lips. When she feels his touch is gentle, she slowly turns her head to face him and flutters her eyes open.

She looks into the shadows that obscure his features, seeing only the faintest hint of green eyes.

"Are you alright?" Michael asks. The girl answers with an inconspicuous nod of her head. "Are you sure?" Michael sternly asks.

"Who are you?" the girl's lips tremble as she asks. "Why, why are you here?"

"Because you needed help."

The girl could barely see the guard out of the corner of her good eye. He is on the ground still, one arm leaning against the wall to prop himself up. Blood continues to pour down her face, her neck, and her slender body. The eye is useless, completely useless. Why should she question the one man who saved her out of everyone?

"Thank you." She quietly weeps.

Michael gives the girl a faint smile. His hands are a blur about the girl's body. One by one the locks click open. The girl collapses into the Michael's arms, unable to stand.

"You're name?" the girl asks as she clutches Michael's shoulders, one eye crying tears, the other blood.

"Unimportant." Michaels replies.

Gently he puts the girl to her knees on the ground and wraps a blanket he picked from the one of the stands selling textiles, wrapping it around the girl's shoulders. It clings to her body and pools around her body. It covers her entire body, including her feet. Clutching her sides, the creases ripple like water as she fists it in her hands and huddles into it like a baby wrapped in a blanket. Now that she's covered, Michael turns his attention to the false guard. He stands and puts his back to the wall. He still has his dagger.

"Uncalled for. I'll have you arrested for interfering with official officer business!" he shouts.

"That would be intimidating if you were part of the royal guard." Michael calmly snarls.

The man is about to shout in reply, when his eyes flick over Michael's shoulder. Michael turns and sees a trio of real guards, led by a citizen, file into the square. The citizen points towards Michael then the man. They ready frying pans like weapons.

Michael turns back just in time as the false guard spins, his dagger lunging towards Michael's chest. It never comes close. Michaels slaps it away with an open palm, kicks him in the groin, and then slams an elbow into the man's forehead.

"You ought to be nicer with the ladies." Spinning his serrated dagger, Michael grips the man by scruffs of his hair and as the man tries to reason that killing him won't solve anything, Michael simply snarls and slices his throat. Blood splatters across the ground.

Simply tossing the body aside, Michael approaches the girl carefully. "Can I touch you?"' he asks.

The girl looks to him and nods her head. He helps her up and keeps an eye on her gait. She appears to be able to handle the walk towards the guards, until her knees quake and she tumbles into Michael's chest. He manages to hold her up and keeps an arm around her shoulder.

Michael guides her to the guards, but as one carefully carries her, five other surround Michael. They point their pans towards him, and it takes all Michael has not to laugh. He holds his arms in the air in submission.

"No!" the girl screeches. "He helped me! He's innocent!"

"He's interfered with public affairs without consulting the guards." The one soldier says.

"Without -! He saved me! Those posers could've raped me and you're arresting him?! You've never would've come here if it weren't for that citizen! I was lucky he was here!" the girl argues.

She's shouting now, and Michael can't seem to pinpoint where the anger came from, except that it swirls within her, violent and vicious and the strongest she's felt this whole time.

This seems to somehow strike the guards, as their grips on their 'weapons' loosen. The crowd soon joins in cheers and argued hollers as the guards still hold Michael at pan-point. Michael bows his head in respect to the officers. They lower their pans but Michael still keeps his arms above his head. Slowly, he reaches back towards his sheath of arrows.

"Be that as it may, he is a criminal."

"What?!"

"He needs to be brought before the King and Queen to decide his output."

"I meant no disrespect to the law." Michael chimes.

"Of course, sir. But we had gotten word about who you are; you'll have to come with us." The guard responds.

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

In an instant Michael takes the arrow head and slaps it to the ground. Smoke erupts and envelops his body. Guards jump back and cough. The shadow cloak swirls about his body, his limbs and head fading away into a shapeless blob of back and gray. Michael wraps his cloak around his body, its fabric seemingly made of liquid shadow. A sudden jerk and he is gone, his body exploding into dark fragments that splashes across the walls and fades like smoke.

As the smoke clears, the guards are baffled as they find the space empty. Only thing left behind is a coin purse with enough coin to pay a bounty charged for those of murder. The guard pokes at it waiting for it to explode, but nothing happens. He picks it up and hands it to the captain. After checking the authenticity, he orders the guards to get the girl clothed and fed.

"Should we send out a wanted bounty sir?" one guard asks.

The captain examines the bodies of the men, his eyes widen in surprise. The men were wanted criminals within the kingdom and always managed to escape the grasp of the law. Even if they had been captured, they would've just been the headman's axe anyhow.

"No, let him go." The Captain finally responds.

"But sir, he's a wanted man."

"He paid off the bounty for out kingdom. Wherever he goes now, he's their problem. We handle out crimes separate here."

"Yes sir."

Michael stands at the end of the kingdom's bridge and gazes at the gates waiting for an army of guards to take pursuit. None do. Turning on his heels, Michael keeps his hood up as she starts to walk away from the kingdom.

Since the death of his parents since he was thirteen, Michael has since made it a sworn duty he would abolish any form of crime in any kingdom he'd come across in his journey. Usually it ends peacefully as the guards let him go for being a "Helpful citizen." But those rare cases where he wasn't easily excused for being 'heroic' he usually had to take the more discreet escape; leaving only behind some coin. Whether they take it as a bribe to overlook his actions or as a payment was up to the guards.

Many a times he was recognized as a criminal, so his actions wouldn't make much different. Ever since the rebellion in his own hold, Michael has been branded as a murder and wanted criminal. Even with the new rule once the rebels overtook the hold, by then, it was out of their hands. The King had sent out a bounty for Michael's head, granting any kingdom that captured him was to execute him for being head of a rebellion and for the murder of the king. For seven years he ran. Never sleeping in the same place twice and carefully covering his tracks. Michael had to do whatever he could to erase any bounty that is to come across; even if it means delving into the less likeable means.

As the sky begins to surrender to the night, Michael stumbles across a local inn for travelers. Walking up the steps, he stops a beggar sitting on the outside bench, a bucket placed in front of him with nothing in it but scrapes of food. Michael gazes at the beggar. He gives a slight smile and flicks a coin into the bucket.

"Oh thank you. May the gods bless your kind heart." He praises.

Michael nods and enters the in. Inside, Michael takes note of only the three customers. A hugs fireplace at the center of the room with longtables along the walls, and chairs in a small circle to watch whatever bard be available. He approaches the counter and orders a room for the night. The bartender shows him to his room and Michael follows. Shutting the door behind him, Michael throws himself on the bed and pulls a worn book he kept stuffed under his armor. A charming read, and something to get his mind of things and allows him to escape for however many pages he can cram before sleep drags him in the unconscious.

Michael spent the better part of his years reading books about different fighting techniques, sneak techniques and books that delve in the craft of speech. Michael is no thief, usually he'll do any jobs the innkeepers point him towards and collect the reward, and they never disappoint. Also it doesn't hurt when he sells any kills he makes at the local markets and innkeepers and traders.

As he nears the end of a chapter, a creak in the wood catches his attention. Michael freezes and flicks his gaze around his room. He slowly sits up and sets aside his book. In his box of a room there is only a wardrobe, a chest, a single table and chair and a bed. A single candle glows on the table, flickering at the slightest breeze. There's it literally no other room for someone to be in there. He stands and gazes around the room. He goes to the door and opens it, sticking his head out, and glances around the inn. The bartender has changed shifts, and a drunkard has his head flopped in the table snoring.

Gazing out the windows located above the vaulted ceiling, it had to be at least eleven o'clock at night. Michael steps out of his room and begins to circle around the fireplace. Nothing seems out of place, and the bartender doesn't seem bothered, though this doesn't calm Michael. As he goes back into his room, he glances at the bartender who keep wiping the counter with an old rag, as if cleaning is a necessity. Michael locks the door behind him as he enters his room. As he does, the room goes dark.

Michael instantly spins and lunges forward. A hand grabs his arm and drags him to the side. Someone shoves a sack over his head while someone else pushes him against the wall. Michael struggles to breathe and thrashes against them. Struggling with the fabric covering his face, there are at least two hands on his arms. He twists one arm free and punches, hitting someone in a shoulder or a chin, he can't tell. Through it all, he doesn't cry out for help.

"Hey!" a voice says. "That hurt!"

"We're sorry for startling you, Michael." Another voice says, "but anonymity is integral to our operation. We mean you no harm."

"Then let _go_ of me." Michael says, almost growling. All the hands holding him to the wall fall away. "Who are you?" he demands.

"We are representatives of another kingdom in dire need your, talents." The voice continues.

Michael can't help but laugh. "Why the need to take drastic measures?"

"We've caught wind of your, recent acts, and weren't sure whether you'd be hostile." Another voice responds.

"Which circumstance are you referencing?"

"Back in your home kingdom." Is all he says, and it's all he needs to say as Michael easily understands.

"Well, I'm no criminal, and your obviously not here to arrest me, so what problems do you have?" Michael asks. He tries to see through the fibers of whatever is over his head, but they are too dense and it is too dark.

"If you'll just head outside, there is a carriage waiting for you. We'll discuss when the matters are more, private."

"Well at least let me ask you this:" Michael says. He folds his arms and leans against the wall. "If I'm going to see who you are, in a matter of minutes, why is it so important to keep this thing over my head?"

"A day contains many dangers," the voice says. "especially with a man of your status. Meet us outside in five minutes."

All at once, the door swings open, blowing the sack against Michael's cheeks, and he hears running footsteps down the hall and the opening of the front door. Michael instantly pulls the sack from his head and glances over his shoulder. The bartender is gone and the innkeeper as just come up from the cellar. Michael folds the sack and tucks it away on his belt before gathering his book, which has remained untouched.

Once five minutes have passed through reading, Michael pulls up his hood and hastily exists the inn. Outside, twilight was beginning to arise over the horizon. There is little to no people outside this early, and a chill drifts through the town, causing the wood foundations moan.

Parked just outside the inn is a pale blue carriage. Its intricate designed structure defines that of a high class. The color itself is a pale, almost icy blue with pearl white outlines that could be made of pearl for all Michael knew. Gilt details chased the walls and netted the windows while a giant snowflake dominates the entire back. The coachman sits straight with his head facing forward. His posture so stiff that he looks like he made be made of plastic. He doesn't turn his head even as Michael approaches. A footman stands at the open carriage door with a similar stature, only he actually looks to Michael and gestures him in.

Michael walks up the two steps and raises his eyebrows. The interior had navy-blue plush cushions and crystal snowflakes hung suspended from the ceiling, wavering ever so slightly. Embroidered pillows sat on either side of the cushions while velvet carpeting muffles his footsteps. The whole inside of the carriage glistens and sparkles like the inside of a Faberge egg.

With one seat occupied by a cloaked figure, Michael takes the seat across. He folds his hands together and waits for the figure to say something, otherwise he might as well just walk out. No pointing going anywhere until he knows where he's going and why.

The man first removes his hood revealing a balding man in about his mid-thirties. Underneath the black cloak, he wears a green and purple button suit with a golden yellow stylized crocus crest encompassed over his heart. Michael has recognized it before. Usually they are associated and prominent with the kingdom of Arendelle. Michael furrows his eyebrows.

"Thank you for meeting us. I know it wasn't our, smartest by far." The man says.

"If you've got a job for me let's hear it." Michael says.

"First, a little history lesson." The man says holding up a gloved hand. "I am a representative of the Kingdom of Arendelle; as I'm sure you've taken notice. My Queen and her sister are beloved by all who know them. Elsa is the oldest, so after the death of their parents she ascended the throne."

Michael leans back into the seat and folds his arms. "Is there a point to this?"

"Our Queen Elsa is, gifted, so to speak."

"Gifted how?"

"She, has the ability to freeze thing. She can create winter flurries with a flick of her wrist. And she is also, very powerful." The man explains.

"Seems like quite the dictator." Michael says.

"Not at all. Quite the opposite. Queen Elsa actually feared her gift for most of the year of her life. She secluded herself from the world, and even her own sister. For so many years their royal majesties have kept the gates closed, and reduced the staff because of her ability. Only recently has she regained control and now rules the kingdom with as much grace and dignity as her parents. As the queen regnant of the kingdom of Arendelle, she is calm, reserved and regal, and is experienced in grace and poise." The man says.

As he speaks, Michael hears the coachman snap the reins on the horses and the carriage lurches forward. The man is still talking like nothing is happening, but Michael ignores his talking.

"Whoa, what the hell is happening?" he asks.

"We're moving." The man stutters, confused.

"Stop the carriage." Michael firmly says.

"But sir -"

"Stop the carriage!" Michael demands.

The carriage harshly stops and the driver looks in back to see if something is wrong.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me everything." Michael clarifies.

"I'm trying sir, but we need to get there quickly -"

"We are not moving until I have all the details. I need to make sure this isn't a waste of my time."

The man sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "A man of business, I see."

"So, the job?" Michael persists.

"Ah yes, of course. Now I've recently been given word that an assassin, is hiding out in our kingdom. And he was sent to annihilate her royal majesties."

"And this is all based off of rumors that may or may not be true." Michael says, unconvinced.

"I understand you're doubts, but please note that with any kingdom, any threat to the royal family is a matter that must be addressed even if it is all just made up gossip. Surely you must understand that." The man persist.

"So why hire me? Why not some brute mercenary or double the guards? Plus, if your beloved queen has ice powers, I'm sure she's more than capable of looking out for herself." Michael says.

"Keep in mind she is hesitant to use her powers in combat. It is her last resort. Only if she is forced to will she use them. Plus, this is an assassin."

The man leans forward, elbows to his knees and makes vigorous motions with his hands.

"Royalty is reminded about it, but not trained to defend against it. We're hiring you because you are a man of shadows. You seem to know when danger is abound, as you demonstrated in the inn. Your skills, are unmatched. Help us, and I can have the Queen clear your bounty. You'll be a free man."

"I assume you know the story better than me?" Michael sneers.

"I only have basic facts. Nothing personal and nothing concrete; just myths and legends.

"Thought myths are based on some version of the truth." Michael quotes.

"I can easily assume you'd rather not talk about it. Whatever your "crime" may be, with the Queen's influence and word spreading around you saved her from a conspiracy assassination, you'll be more than a free man." The man persuades. "You'll be a hero."

"I don't seek much reward when it comes to my business. But it never hurts. What could this cost?" Michael leans forward.

"Enough to make you a rich man of the era."

Michael leans back, folds his arms and ponders.

"I can assure you, both sisters will welcome you with open arms."

"Hold on, hold on." Michael holds up an open palm hand. "No offense, but if I'm to do this, I'd prefer I do it with tactics I'm familiar with."

"Of course. We assumed as much. The Queen is hosting a party tonight, details aren't important. But what is important, is that it's a gathering of very important people. What better way to kill the Queen than in front of her predecessors."

Michael eyes the man. He merely laughs.

"I have this uncanny ability to delve into the minds of others." He says.

"Remind me not to get close to you." Michael says with a placid face. "So I assume I'm not going to be on guard duty?"

"No, I've contacted my associates, and they've planned to get you into the party with the crowd. Guards will be notified, so if anything were to happen, they won't target you. Their only concern will to be getting the Queen and Princess to safety."

Michael looks to the man and exhales deeply through his nose.

"So, do we have a deal?" the man asks, extending out his hand.

Michael looks to it at first, sensing a trap; but gives a ghost of a smile and takes the man's hand.

"Deal. Off to Arendelle."


	3. Chapter 2

The trip takes about three days.

After the carriage ride to the city docks, Michael is escorted to an old-time ship with sails that stretch high enough to scrape the clouds. The sail had the same crocus crest printed on its sail. It puffs and deflate with every gust that blows along the sea. It wasn't that Michael isn't used to sailing, but he just prefers solid ground. Still he boards the plank and lets the butler escort him below deck to the living quarters.

He opens a door and motions Michael inside. Stepping over the threshold, the room has a single bed and a cushioned seat near the window. The four-post bed has draperies that close for the upmost privacy, and the bed itself is King-sized with plush and embroidered pillows adorning at the head.

"You're quarters until we reach Arendelle." The man says.

"Thanks." Michael says over his shoulder. He places his bag, which he constructed out of a pillowcase and rope, onto the bed. He's still in his armor he was in back at the inn, and it's starting to ripen.

"I'll let you get situated. Dinner will be served in half an hour. Would you like me to wash those sir? The maids will have no problem." He says.

Michael looks to his clothes. "What am I supposed to wear until then?"

"There are some dressers of a more, suitable attire. Everything should fit you." The man comes in and takes Michael's bag and motions towards the mahogany dresser with a simple silver candleholder on it. He then leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Michael walks around the room taking in the luxury he's never seen. The walls a peaceful, calm color with naturist wall ornaments and tiered crystal chandeliers were dripping from the ceiling. The bed sheets seemed made of exotic silk and felt as if it were stuffed with only the feathers of the most exotic birds in the world. Michael sits on the bed, carefully, and rubs his hand along the smooth sheets and catches the scent of lavender.

Looking in the mirror – given he only had one in his old house, and that he always handled the forge on a daily basis – this could count as him looking fully at his reflection for the first time in his life. He stares at a man with short black hair that falls over his forehead in bangs, blue eyes and a round nose. Scars cover his body, marking their territory along his chest, a few on his arms, and one that slices vertically at the corner of his mouth.

It never occurred to him how scarred and frankly dirty he appears, not that he usually cares. But for the first time, since he's visiting royalty, he decides to draw a bath. He walks to the adjoined bathroom and sits on the edge of a marble tub with gold clawed feet. He plugs the drain, turns the faucet and water spills into the tub, covering his toenails. Once it's filled just below the lip, Michael slips in beneath its skin and relaxes.

The water was never this warm at his house. Normally they would bring buckets of lake water and heat it over the forge. And it would take at least ten buckets to fill the tub, five minutes to heat it up. Michael imagines having hot running water every day. It's surreal.

Michael takes the soap and begins to scrub his face with a loofa sponge. Lathering soap over them, he scrubs his face, arms, legs, neck. Scrubbing until his skin is bright pink and his body smells of vanilla. The bathwater turns grey. He turns the soap in his hands until his skin is coated with white lather. He runs his fingers over his palm, careful to get the spaces between his fingers. By the time he climbs out, he water's cooling and is a murky brown. Because he can, Michael drains it and refills the tub; only this time he takes a porcelain pitcher, stands in the tub and scoops the water up to pour it down his body, starting from his head. Reminisce of the dirt wash down the drain in thin streams of dirt, and once he pours and the water is clear, Michael steps out of the tub.

He grabs a towel and wraps it about his waist and takes another to dry his hair and torso. Stepping out of the steaming bathroom, he goes over to the dresser and pulls open the drawer. Not having the best sense of fashion in the world, Michael does his best to pick a tunic and trousers that have a presentable collaboration of color. He settles one a royal blue tunic and white trousers and his brown boots. With five minutes until dinner, Michael assumes that someone will send a servant to bring him. So he sits lies on the bed and gazes out the window to the open sea.

He closes his eyes, and he must've dosed off because there's a knocking at his door, and when he opens his eyes, the sky what once was blue, is now dark velvet with stars piercing through. Michael rubs his eyes and goes to the door. A woman dressed in the same attire as the man from the carriage stands at his door.

"Dinner is ready, sir." She gently smiles.

Michael awkwardly smiles and follows the woman into the hallway. His footsteps went mute as they sank into plush gold and black carpeting. The walls were lined with shelves decorated with colorful glass knickknacks and boats. Tall floor candelabrums with fancy flat bowls accented the space. Scanning the walls, he could find no windows.

Golden candelabra shaped like women in flowing gowns adorned the walls, the low and steady light they offered between their outstretched hands providing minimal relief from the darkness that saturated everything.

They entered the dining room and Michael is instructed to take a seat. The tables were set with silver and pearl-white plates, which were actually made of pearl, for all Michael knew. The table was overflowing with food. A crown roast, filet tied with rosemary, and exotic dishes he'd never seen before. A large bird stuffed with dressing and pears, resting on peacock feathers arranged to resemble a live bird's open tail. And sparkling candies shaped like live seahorses. Michael takes a seat on the side of the table and keeps his hands in his lap as instructed by his father.

The butlers walk around while other members of a probably higher status take their seats. The man from the carriage sits down next to Michael and smiles.

"You clean up nice." He says.

Michael waggles his eyebrows and give a ghost of a smile.

The man extends out his hand. "I still haven't properly introduced myself. I'm Garther, I'm the Harold for the queen. Michael takes his hand and shakes it with a nod of his head. "Now, there is one more detail that I need to tell you."

One butler lays a plate down in front of Michael and says dinner is served. Michael ignores his craving and forces himself to pay attention.

"Now, the Queen and Princess don't know about our, hiring you." Garther says. Michael looks to him wearily. "It's for the better. If they find out about the criminal in the kingdom, the Queen and her sister will overreact and she'll have the gates closed."

"And? How is that a bad thing?" Michael says as he picks up a fork and stabs is into the meat of the bird.

"With her years of seclusion, the Queen is still overly-cautious. I just don't want either of them riled up." Garther says.

"Fine. Understandable." Michael agrees. "But how exactly do the guards feel about going behind the Queen's back?"

"I've managed to pacify them about it; explaining to them what I did t you. It's for the better intentions of the Queen and Princess." Garther insists. "And it's beneficial since you get paid, and treated to luxury while you're working for us."

"I'm not in it for money." Michael mumbles. "Just to help however I can is enough."

"You sure have simple standards." Garther says. "I knew you were the best choice."

Michael cheers to him and takes a sip of his elegant wine. After the dinner bird, Michael returns to his chambers and plops on his bed. His stomach is bloated and it feels like he's green in the face, but if he can handle his mother's fish stew with broccoli, he's determined to hold onto this. Michael heavily belches and runs his fingers through his air. He tosses aside the clothes, folding them nicely before pulling on some sleep clothes. There's a knock at the door and he opens it to find a maid with his uniform folded and pressed. She hands it and bows her head.

"Your clothes, sir." She says.

"Thank you." Michael takes the clothes and nods back.

Michael tosses his uniform onto the dresser and once again settles into the sheets of the bed. He closes his eyes and lets the waves rock him to sleep.

_Michael_.

"_Michael_."

His mother whispers his name in the fog. The world is black, and a pale purple fog dwindles like mist on water. Michael pushes through the mist with his hands, only cradling the clouds for seconds. He listens to the whispers as they circle him and follows the scent of his mother. Sweat mixed with the freshening wisp of daisies.

He finds her standing at the edge of the mist and approaches her. He extends out a hand and grasps her shoulder, but the moment he does she whips around and it feels a whoosh of air that sends him flying back.

Michael rolls back and up to one knee. His mother's eyes are tearstained and blood seeps from an invisible wound on her head. Her clothes suddenly becomes

"Run! Run Michael!" she screams. A high-pitched shriek that pierces the air.

Michael stands and grabs his dagger, but the moment his fingers braise the hilt, there's a sudden whirl of movement and a haze of images. He blinks and finds himself standing in the courtyard of the castle of his old hold. Two guards off to the right restraint his mother while two more ahead of him drag his father's body towards the executioner's block.

"No!" Michael screams.

He tries to rush forward, but suddenly it feels as if he's body is running on slow motion while the world goes at normal speed. He tries to run faster, but his legs still take excruciating time to even reach the ground. The guards slam his father's body down and there's a grasp on Michael's arms. He moves normally, but now two more guards are hauling him back. Michael thrashes and fights but their arms seem to be made of steel.

Just as the headman's axe is about to rain down, Michael screams.

Michael's eyes spring open. The room swirls into focus. He blinks at the artificial light that radiates from his ceiling fixture, his hear thundering in his chest manic as a captured bird. He sits up and holds his head, his forehead moist with sweat. He gasps, heaving and swallows the air in gulps. He can feel himself slightly shaking and breathes to himself that it's just a dream.

There's a knock at his door.

"What?!" Michael says too sharply, and clears his throat. "What, what is it?" he tries again.

"Sir Michael," A soft, muffled female voice speaks. "Sorry to disturb you."

"No, no, no you didn't." Michael says. He coldly chuckles. "I actually just work up."

"Uh well, we have arrived in Arendelle, sir."

Michael looks out his window and sees the sky a bright blue with fluffy clouds gliding across the backdrop. The ship has been docked, though from his position, he can only see the outer sea, and the tower ports that stand guard at the entrance.

"Sir?" he hears the maid speak.

"Yes, yes. I'll be out in a minute. Thank you."

He hears the footsteps head away from the door and Michael heads to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. He pats his face and rests on his elbows as he breathes. Looking in the mirror, his eyes are slightly bloodshot and they feel dry. He snatches a towel and dries his face quickly.

Even after all these years, he still wakes up screaming for his dad to run.

He balls up the towel and chucks it across the room. As he exits to retrieve his uniform, he stops. Something small but shiny catches his eye. It floats around his room like its riding even the simplest breeze or draft yet it stays stationary. Michael approaches it, only then does it come closer.

A snowflake. Yet it's summer outside.

Michael watches the flake dance about in its space, then drift towards him landing on his nose. He expects it to melt. It doesn't. After three seconds, it simply floats up and past his head. Michael turns and it's gone. The window is closed, and the sun's glare makes him squint one eye.

Quickly packing away his things, Michael slings them over one shoulder and heads out to the docks. The sunlight blinds him for fifteen seconds before they adjust and he finds himself on the stone docks of Arendelle. Walking past the docks and up the steps, there's a flower stand on his immediate left then the castle beyond that. Posts with banners of the crest and the silhouettes of the royal family dot along the causeway that leads past the main gates.

The kingdom itself it surrounded by mountains, and with the sea as their only form of transportation, it would seem the kingdom has a natural barrier shall it ever be involved in war. And yet, the city has a very similar feel as The Kingdom of Corona. Everyone seems decent and those willing to work have decent living conditions.

Garther motions Michael over and Michael sighs re-gripping on his bag and following after him. Several citizens gaze at him and Michael needs to double check that he's not wearing his uniform. He simply wears a pale blue tunic and white trousers. His brown boots reach up to his knees, and despite their old appearance, they don't have blood on them. Then he realizes, his clothing, it's of high ranking nobles. He wears the clothes of a due, yet walks like that of a commoner. Plus, despite it being a stretch, he appears to be the only one with black hair.

Michael ruffles his bangs and continues after Garther. After passing through the gates, and ignoring a glance Michael gets from a guard, they enter the courtyard of the castle. Two steps in and Michael nearly stumbles as his feet loose footing. He holds out his arms and regains balance and grips the ground with his toes. Ice.

"Ice?" Michaels mumbles.

"Ah yes, see the queen likes to coat the courtyard with ice for the villagers. You know how to skate?" Gather asks as he glides across to the front doors.

Michael sighs. "This job had better be worth all this." He grumbles.

Many citizens and children skate around giggling and laughing at those who fall and slip. The roofs were an icy blue with guilt details chasing up the walls. The water of the fountains gracefully towers upwards and glistens in the sunlight.

Michael recollects his memories of skating with his father at the pond near their house. He glides to the gates and skips over the threshold into the entry hall. As he enters, his footsteps echo against the polished wood floor. Michael cranes his head, awed at the incredible height of the ceiling. Someone must like old-fashioned boats, he thinks, his eyes finding first the model of what he thought might be a schooner, perched on a long hallway table, and then a large painting depicting an old-time being tossed around on a stormy sea.

Their footsteps go mute as the sink into the runner carpet that stretches down the hallway and up a grand spiral staircase. To his right is an open living room area with tall, sliding wooden doors. Inside, a fireplace plays the role of centerpiece. The walls are lined with shelves decorated with colorful glass knickknacks and more boats. Tall floor lamps with fancy Tiffany-like shades accented the space. The lamps especially, Michael thinks, gives the room a very "look but don't touch" feel.

"You're chambers will be downstairs in a guest room." Garther says.

"And what's to happen when the Queen and Princess find out I'm here, because they will find out." Michael asks.

Garther stops, and turns. "Then we tell them the truth and our reasons for the secrecy, and hope for the best."

"That's not exactly the most promising."

"That's because you don't know the royal sisters as I do." Garther retorts. Michael eyes him and Garther clears his throat. "If you'll just follow me."

Michael nods. He makes sure to follow, not comfortable on being lost in the castle on his own; but stops when he comes to a second larger room to his right. This one is another no-touchy, done in antique gold and soft pinks with hardwood inlay floor, heavy draperies, and fancy old chairs. In one corner, like a squat gentleman in a tuxedo, stands a polished black piano. As he steps into the room, it feels almost as though he is crossing through a time portal, leaving behind on century behind for another. He strode towards the piano and sets his bag of clothes down on a low coffee table with spindly legs. He moves to stand behind the instrument, where he lets his fingers trail the keys. Picking one somewhere in the middle, he presses it softly.

The note – out of tune – boomed around him.

Michael jerks his arm back. His elbow plows into the shelf behind him, slamming into an oil painting. He swings around, checks the photo – and freezes when he finds himself staring into the intense gaze of a green-eyed, blond-haired man. The King; educated guess.

The photo, taken from the shoulders up, shows him dressed in a blue button-down, and a black vest. His gaze seems to be fixed in an almost-scowl at the painter, like he was indignant at the idea of having his picture painted. Faint half circles underlined the King's eyes, giving him the look of being prematurely world-weary.

Turning, he checks to make sure nothing else on the bookshelf got knocked over. At the sound of feet approaching from the hall, Michael turns back to the piano quickly, pretending he is distracted by its beauty, allowing his fingers to ghost over the keys again.

Garther peeks his head in. He steps fully into the doorway and folds his hands behind his back. "Sorry, sorry." Michael apologizes.

"You play sir?" he asks.

"I dabbled in my younger years." Michael admits. "Anyone here play?"

"Neither of the sisters, but we do have musicians that play at parties." Garther explains. "Now come, we must get you settled before the party tonight."

Michael makes sure to follow Garther as he navigates them through the halls. Left, right, right. Left right left. Right, right. The turns, in order from the point of origin – the living room – to the quarters. Michael is so disoriented he could never find his way back, the fingers of his hand sliding along the mahogany banister. Despite the fact that they mount a few flights of stairs, he still feels like they're descending deeper in the building. They reached a landing, a window stamped into the wall to his left.

Rounding on final corner, he comes to a long hallway with an even larger floor to ceiling window with cross-hatched X's along the glass. The natural lighting brightens the entire hall. Garther leads Michael further down stopping at the last room on the left.

Garther opens the door and steps aside. Michael walks in, and the room has to be ten times as big as his old home. Shadows gather in pockets despite the room's two windows, while above him, the ceiling pitches and slants upwards like the roof of a tent. A mauve color wraps the walls. There's a tiny fireplace in this room too, like the one in the living room, only this one is simpler, studded with plain white ceramic tiles. Michael doubts the fireplace works, though, because the space is empty. However another one on the far side of the room burns with three thick logs that chip and crack.

He walks around the room taking in the grandness. One window with three vertical panels crosshatches by white Xs. The other window is smaller, lower to the floor, and on the side wall near the bed, allowing for a stellar view of the kingdom.

"This room is rarely ever used, sir. So you should be fine." Garther says.

"As long as no one comes in and declares me an intruder." Michael says.

"Of course not. Now, I'll have some exclusive staff members dress you appropriately for the party. I told them about your unique situation and they've sworn to secrecy."

"So when can I leave and switch clothes?" Michael asks sitting in a velvet armchair. "Because fancy clothing isn't exactly wise to wear against an assassin."

"You can feel free to leave whenever you wish. Or if you wish to simply hide in the shadows the whole time, please."

"I'll probably go about twenty minutes before the party reaches its climax. No better time than to strike." Michael summarizes.

"As you wish."

"So what am I supposed to do? Just hang in this room until the party?" Michael asks.

"I had anticipated you as someone who can't sit still." Garther smiles. "You're free to roam the castle as the Queen and her sister are touring the marketplace for the day. They should be back by twilight."

Michael nods.

"Now, I must return to the court. They simply can't make do without me." Garther says with a bow.

Michael sits on the bed and grazes his hand along the silk linen sheets. Plush and embroidered pillows gather at the headboard. If the job is giving this kind of luxury, Michael can easily get used to being an Ice Queen's bodyguard.

Having the entire day to himself allows more than enough time for Michael to spend the day scouting the place, meeting new members of the staff, committing their faces to memory. All throughout, he can't get over how similar the halls mimic that of the castle from his old hold. The feeling is divided as he knows that this isn't the castle, yet perhaps it was that the only other time he was _in_ a castle is when he went to murder the King. It'll probably take some time getting used to.

The plush carpet feels wonderful to his bare feet as Michael walks the long hallways, down staircases, even finding some secret passages through bookcases and paintings. All throughout, most of the female staff members made excuses to see him, not that he minds. They seem like decent company and seem more than happy to show him around. Over twenty windows stretch along the right, their glass covered by violet curtains. On the left hangs paintings of former masters of the Arendelle castle. A particular favorite spot being the castle garden. When he reaches the dining hall, it looks naked with the empty chairs, covered table, and unlit chandeliers. As he explores, he finds a room that looks like it was left out of memory. The walls are gray plaster, undecorated and leading farther into the castle. Michael decides it's the perfect spot to hide his uniform for the party as it's tucked away into the corner and guests would be oblivious to it.

When his tour of the place is done, he returns to the room, a maid in tow like a lovesick puppy.

"Couldn't have asked for a nicer room." He says as she plops down onto the bed. At the door, the maid Marian remains, as if embarrassed to come farther inside.

She was in her early twenties wearing a usual maid attire. A dark green dress with a head covering and white gloves. He stands with her hands folded in front of her and her head slightly bowed.

"Sir, the Queen and Princess will be coming home soon to get ready for the party. And we were instructed to get you ready as well." She says.

"And how do you propose to do that?" Michael slyly smiles.

The maid slightly blushes and clears her throat. "If you'll just follow me." is all she says, while motioning out towards the hall.

Michael sighs and gets up from the bed and follows the maid out once again into the hall.


	4. Chapter 3

Soaking in the hot water, his legs stretched out in front, Michael inhales the freshening scent of cucumber melon. One woman named Ganda - who has tan skin, and long black hair – scrubs his feet with a loofah sponge, massaging away knots and tension. She lathered on a lotion that at first felt heated, but slowly grew warm as she scrubbed.

"My boy, your knots have knots, son." She says. "You travel a lot?"

Michael weakly smiles back. "Something like that." He croaks.

His chin still lightly tingling from where she shaved away his five o'clock shadow, Michael rests his head back on the pillow they placed around his neck. He's been with the staff for nearly an hour. They lotion his arms and legs, trim his nails, smoothing his hair and removing any unwanted knots.

"And I have to say you have such perfect eyebrows." Ganda adds.

"Thank you." Michael speaks politely. He sighs. "I may never come out."

Zenski, a man with combed-over brown hair, scrubs Michael's arm and massages his back. Scrolling designs covered much of his skin. His chest, sculpted and smooth like a polished statue, depicted minutely detailed tattoos of sailing ships, tossing waves, and foam. A long-haired mermaid graced his existing shoulder, her scaly tail sweeping the length of his arm. An entire portion of the sea epic vanished under the fabric of his shirt.

Then washing his hair was a woman named Jolie with her skin a delicate snow white and pale pink lips. Her hair was a deep red, dripping down in an endless waterfall of curls.

"Alright sweetie," Ganda says. "you can get out now."

Michael sighs and presses his palms to the sides of the tub, careful not to lose his footing. Pushing up, he nearly slips from the oils, but gains his footing and takes the three steps out of the tub. They hand him a towel and once he's dry, they toss it aside, handing him a soft, blue robe.

Michael can't stop the smile on his lips. He's never received this kind of luxury before. His body feels so fresh and warm he could swear he was squeaky clean from head to toe. Usually he had to fill his tub with warm water he boiled over the hearth. And he never realized how greasy his hair was until he ran his fingers through it, and it mimics that of silk.

"Just follow me, sir." A maid says as she escorts Michael out of the room.

He follows her down a long hallway to a room on the right. It mimicked that of a parlor room. The walls were a mauve color with thick velvet draperies hanging around the tall windows. Victorian chairs bordered the table while a fireplace with a cherry-finish wood, sat at the very back of the room; golden candelabrums poised on each end. A mahogany hutch stood guard along one wall, holding the most exquisite plates, bowls, gravy boats, glasses and a few crystal figurines.

A chandelier with crystal balls dangling off the arms hung suspended above them with flames of candles casting the room in a warm glow. A monstrously huge oil painting, a portrait of a terrifyingly beautiful woman with glowing gold eyes, hung over the fireplace. Atop the mantel, an antique clock that reads ten to seven at night.

Michael's footsteps went mute as he steps onto a plush carpet barefoot.

"Please sit." The maid gestures to the couch.

Michael smoothes the robe and takes his seat across from the maid. She goes over to a mahogany butler and picks up a tray with lunch. A plate of pasta noodles smothered in a sweet sauce, sprinkled with parmesan cheese and a side of sausage. A glass of strawberry water, and for dessert, a cinnamon bun drizzled with gooey icing.

Eager to taste, Michael picks up a fork and twirls the noodles on, then popping it in his mouth. The sweet and cheesy sauce rewarded her mouth with a glorious taste.

"So, if you'll wait here, the dresser will come to collect you to get ready for the party." She says.

Michael nods as he pops another forkful of pasta in his mouth. The maid then leaves, shutting the big oak door behind her. The crackling of the fire is Michael's only company as he finishes his meal. The flavors contorting and mixing into a rather sour aftertaste in his mouth, but his stomach has never felt fuller to the point where he feels green in the face. He rubs his stomach and slouches back into the velvet couch. He folds his feet underneath him and keeps his hands in his lap.

He hears the door click open and in steps in another servant.

He's of middle-age and wears a more extravagant tunic under a fur-lined robe. "I assume you're the "guest?" Michael?"

Michael nods. The man has a handlebar mustache starting from his nose and his coal-black hair is smooth and greased back. His nose protrudes out and hooks near the end, a pair of spectacles along the bridge. The gold chain of a pocket watch glimmers as he pulls it out and pop the gold case open. He closes it a second later and places it in his vest pockets.

"Follow me." He simply says then turns around and walks out.

Michael sighs knowing that this is going to be one of the stereotypes of castle servants. He follows the dresser to another room about the same size with similar furniture, the only difference is that around the room there are several partitions poised with several articles of clothing draped over the tops. The front room stretched before them long and wide, lined with rows of tall, sturdy manikins that posed with elegant dresses and gowns. Overhead in the chandelier, the tired light of torches burned a dull gold, adding little relief to the accumulated shadows. Carefully, Michael steps around a mound of bejeweled slippers near the door. The dresser moves between two sewing machines Michael's gaze passes up and over the marked spines of countless dummies, every item categorized by its own number and date, and it made them feel almost as though they are walking through catacombs.

"Garther has already sent up your clothes. The maidens and I will help you change."

"Fine." Michael replies placidly.

Michael follows the man to a platform with a three-paneled mirror similar to the one in a garment store. Only this one has exquisite bordering and delicate craftsmanship to form in the shape of a bird's wings. A young woman brings over the clothes and removes the string on the package.

The thing itself was torturous. His clothes folded on a table with one drawer and a measuring tape rolled neatly next to a pincushion with multicolored pins poking out of it. Another was around the dresser's neck. His hands grip a stool while a woman mercilessly pulls and tugs at the strings of the piece of clothing until Michael could barely breathe. The rough linen threads scrape against his skin, digging so hard into his skin that he believes the skin is red and throbbing. He gasps and grunts into his teeth as she keeps tugging. He always assumed he was thin from his eating, but apparently not as much as he thought; though he can't say he calls it a relief at the moment.

"If you're trying to cut off my circulation, you've succeeded!" he grits his teeth.

"I know, I'm sorry, but we need this if we want to take your measurements." She insists. "Not much longer I promise."

Finally she tugs one last time and holds it. Michael takes deep breathes, but his stomach can't even expand an inch with this restricting around his abdomen. Few beads of sweat bud on his temples and he tries to hold still as she helps him stand straight so that the dresser takes his measurements.

"Hold your arms out." he instructs.

"I can't breathe." Michael croaks.

"I know, just hold on." he says, his face placid.

Michael decides to hold his breath; slowly exhaling and inhaling so that his breathing expands his shoulders than his stomach. Suddenly the man pokes him between the ribs. He squeaked and instinctively clapped his arms to his sides.

"Oh relax dear. Now come on, the sooner we can get this done, the sooner this comes off."

Michael sighs and holds out his arms horizontal. The assistant wraps the tape around Michael's waist and drew it in snug. She strips the tape away and pulls a pen out of her bun to mark a pad of paper. Another woman peeks at the paper.

"Boy, you're muscular." She says smiling.

Michael clamps his arms in against himself against like chicken wings as the two fussed around him. "Is it always like this – Ow!" He jolts as the woman pinched his right on the fleshy part of his underarm.

"I'm starting to regret this." Michael murmurs. Then he feels the woman take the tape and string it around his bustline. "Hey!" he reflexively smacks her hand away.

"Oh, I hate you," she grumbles, making a note on the sheet of paper. She pulls the tape away again, this time drawing out one of Michael's arms to measure its circumference. Scowling, Michael gives up with a huff, resigning himself to be handled and measured and cataloged.

Michael watches as she leaves for a moment and later brings back several clothes that are heavily embroidered, and luxurious. Precious gems would have been sewn into the clothing as well - pearls, silver and gold too. A term known as 'blinking' their clothes. A fur hat the best ermine, trimmed with finest feather available; belonging to a bird Michael didn't even recognize. Embroidered finery and ruffs and fancy collars.

Soon the girdle was finally ripped from his skin. While the girls went to fetch the fabric, Michael spent the next minute gazing at himself in the mirror and massaging his pulsing skin red with the linen imprints. The assistants soon return with the clothes.

Lifting his arms, Michael feels the delicate linen of the shift as it drapes over his body, then a pair of trousers, then a velvet vest, and brown belt. He steps into new polished leather boots. The supple leather gives his toes room to wriggle, something that never happened with his old pair. They touch up his hair and then he turns to face the mirror.

Michael's eyes can't help but widen at how difference he looks. Compared to the boy usually smothered in dirt and has dry blood smeared on his cheeks and hands, this one, this man is of royal blood. Someone who eats with the proper fork but still has the eye for adventure. The Arendelle crest was embroidered on the bottom of the vest, and Michael lets his fingers spider crawl up to his neck where his fingers clasp around a chain to a silver pendant.

"You look, absolutely handsome." A young maid says.

"Thank you."

"Do you like it?" another maid asks.

"It's, unusual." Michael admits. "I've never had such nice clothes before."

He cringes as he hears the awing of the staff, except for the dresser who only looks at his watch. And this is the only time that Michael appreciates him.

"Yes, yes all very pretty and such, but there is a party going on and his majesty is going to be introduced soon!" he urges.

Michael looks to the clock. It reads seven to six. The part starts at six thirty. Michael rolls his eyes, but smiles as he follows the dresser out into the hallway. But not before he slips a dagger into his new boots, and slipping the other between his belt. Michael follows the dresser to the grand staircase in the foyer of the castle, where guests were already filing in through the front doors.

Extravagant, flamboyant, expensive and very colorful outfits are worn to make sure all who were witness of them were very aware of their high rank. Long house jackets are worn by noblemen and the length of the jacket often is an indicator of the wealth of the individual. Women in royalty wore long flowing gowns and very fancy hats or headpieces that were often so ornate that they hindered the wearer from doing anything practical at all.

Michael's heart triples in speed at the sight of so many nobles and dukes and lords of other kingdoms file into the castle. It was only the very wealthy and people of the highest ranks that wore jewelry. For women, a ring brooch was a popular jewelry choice. There were also very particular kind of garb for specialty classes in society such as the military, knights and the clergy. High ranking members of the church often dressed in such a fancy way that their garb could rival kings and princes both in expense and ornateness.

Michael looks over the banister of the cherry wood finish railing and digs his fingernails into the wood. Powdered and pale, the women look like stale pastries. Tall and with garnish, pointed masks, the men seemed like predators.

"Princess Anna wished to have a Masquerade Ball."

Michael jostles and whirls around to find Garther. He wears his usual colored clothes, though the only difference now is that they have ruffles around the collar and the cuffs of the sleeves.

"The perfect place to ambush the royal siblings." Michael comments.

"Come, if you'll follow me I'll take you to another entrance to the party without so much crowd." Garther smiles.

"Now you're starting to get how I work." Michael gives a ghost of a smile.

They maneuver through the dim hallways of the castle, which have no windows, not hint of the world outside. Michael can almost feel the paranoia emanating from the walls, like the terminal itself is terrified of unfamiliar eyes. If only they knew what Michael's eyes were searching for. As they walk, Michael gets a glimpse of Garther's hands, pressed to his sides. The skin around his fingernails is raw and red, like he chewed it away overnight. The fingernails themselves are jagged. No wonder he wears gloves. Michael remembers when his own fingernails themselves looked that way, when the memories of failure crept into every dream and every ideal thought. Perhaps it's the agony of waiting that has Garther doing this.

He follows Garther to a door tucked away in the corner and enters the back of the room. They pass through an archway, and violet walls hug in close around them in a short, curving, almost tunnel-like passageway. It funneled them into another room of about the same size. Reaching the archway into the next room, the boys had to pull themselves back to one side to avoid being trampled by a long train of revelers. Hands linked, they rushed past them, screaming and shrieking with laughter. When he enters the ballroom, he's nearly floored by the size and grandness of the room.

Tired crystal chandeliers were dripping from the ceiling. The ballroom is white as snow and decorated on pastels, opened large and wide around a circular dance floor filled with revolving dancers. Gilt details chased the curved wall and netted the dome ceiling far above. The whole room glistened and sparkled like the inside of a Faberge egg. At the very back of the room, poised atop a three-step platform, stood the throne chairs.

Dressed like iridescent dragonflies, the musicians sat huddled in one corner. They played their instruments feverishly, bowstrings fluttering like the wings of the insets they represent. The rhythm they kept was a steady one-two-three, one-two-three. Dancers turned like dervishes, bead-and-gemstone-encrusted skirts flaring out.

People stood scattered throughout the ballroom dressed like peacocks and jesters, demons, and queens. There are feather masks and silk masks, glittering gowns with belled sleeves, top hats and long cloaks.

Garther dismisses himself to aid the Queen, leaving Michael to mingle. Michael slinks close the sides as he navigates his way through. Tall, shuttered doors were thrown open; the breeze carrying the scent of gardenias, which were arranged in tall silver vases, artfully placed on the tabletops.

A monstrously huge oil painting hung along one wall, but it was covered with a black cloth. It was somewhat transparent so that Michael could see that faces, but not entirely make out who they were. Their faces, their identity concealed off by a black veil. He wanders over to the painting, gazing in awe at its intimidating size.

"It's a shame isn't it?" a voice says.

"Huh?" Michael turns to find a young woman wearing a bird's mask. Her golden-bronze arms coated in black lace sleeves, her thick dark hair piled atop her head beneath bands of silver, secured with large roses and long rapes of black ribbon. She looked like a queen, her full dress a deep bloodred, accented with black.

"After all these years and the family is still in mourning." She speaks. She turns to her head to gaze at the painting.

"Mourning," Michael whispers. Then he remembers how Elsa ascended the throne after the death of her parents.

The woman nods. "This is how the family mourns."

Michael turns back to the portraits. There were thick, braided strings on either side of the painting, decorative tassels on end. The strings maneuvered the cloth. Rather then cause a disturbance, Michael looks around to make sure there were no guards on patrol. At least one stood at each corner of the wide, rectangular room on duty. Arms folded, they only exchange a nod and smile toward the guests.

Michael reaches his hand out and brushes his thumb underneath the material. Slowly he lifts the cloth inch by inch. The portrait progressively reveals the hand of the queen – as recognized by a dainty fingers with a ruffled cuff and exquisite silver gemstone rings. Michael leans closer as the music of the ballroom becomes slow. He only catches a glimpse of blue before Herald's trumpet blasts through the room. Michael jolts and lets the fabric drop.

The Herald keeps buzzing on his instrument as the crowd gathers near the thrones, where to guards stand ready. Michael makes his way to the banquet table to avoid the crowd but still catch a glimpse of the Queen and Princess.

He bumps into a hard body and instantly says, "Excuse me."

"Oh don't worry about it." the man replies.

Michael looks to find a quite muscular and strong man with blond hair. He also has light brown eyes and fair skin with a few freckles across his nose. His nose is quite big and his cheeks are rather red.

"I, I wasn't looking where I was going." He continues. Suddenly a reindeer pops up behind him and Michael's eyes widen in shock. "Sven! Sven, stop it! There will be plenty of carrots for you later!" the man says as she tries to push the reindeer back. "S-sorry about him. He loves the smell of that carrot cake."

Michael nods and gives him half a smile. "If you'll excuse me."

He makes his way to the table and his eyes widen as the table is covered with an elaborate feast. It is set with silver and pearl-white plates, which were actually made of pearl for all he knew; and is overflowing with food. A crown roast filet tied with rosemary, and exotic dishes he'd never seen. A while roast pig with an apple stuck in its mouth. A standing rib roast with little papered puffs on the top of each rib, sat next to a mangled-looking goose covered with chestnuts and creams, rolls and breads, collards and beets and spreads Michael couldn't name. Ocean creatures drizzled in sauces or begging to be dipped in spicy concoctions. Countless cheeses, beds, vegetables, waterfalls of wine and streams of sprites that flicker with fizz.

A tall candelabrum stands in the corner, and it's right by the secret door that leads into the abandoned room. Michael peers over his shoulder and checks to make sure he's not attracting attention. Then with one swoop of his hand, all three candles blow out. He then slips into the room. He changes in less than a minute, more than happy to ditch the tight and overly extravagant jewels. Most hired blackhands would've snuck them, but Michael isn't one to take material items.

Michael sighs as he adjusts his leather armor. It feels good to be bearing the black hood and long battered cape again. He is clothed in leather padding which act as his armor, the layer underneath is a black tunic. He also wears black gloves which he uses to climb up walls and objects, he wears thin black boots which he uses to avoid making sound at the touch of his footsteps.

He folds the clothes and places them inside the cabinet. Rotating around the room he finds an air vent towards the top of the room. He climbs an old cabinet covered with a tarp, then leaps to the architraves and flattens his back to the wall as he inches towards the vent. With a wrench, he unscrews the nail and toggles through in a crouch. The vent leads right to the one of few thick wooden support beams that hopscotch above the guests. Staying crouched down, Michael pulls the mask over his nose and stays tucked in the corner and keeps an eye on the guests now that he has a better view of everyone in the room.

One guest in particular that catches his attention. A man wearing a flame mask and a bright bejeweled red and orange suit. What better way to rebel than to dress as the opposite element of the Queen. Now he may be giving the enemy too much credit, but it could be possible that he could be the obvious distraction while another opponent attacks the Queen. Michael shakes his head and decides to keep him his eyes moving.

He soon hears Garther announce. "Queen Elsa, of Arendelle."

Michael looks and his eyes widen. A beautiful young woman with a tall, slender figure walks with that of dignity and oblige. She has long platinum, braided blonde hair that reaches her elbows with snowflake incrustations, and wisps of her bangs slicked back on top of her head. Then there's her blue eyes, and pale skin; which appears to be fair and bright with a light dusting of freckles. She wears a crystal-blue, off-the-shoulder dress made out of ice with a right knee-high slit, a crystallized bodice and translucent, powder blue sleeves. Covering her feet are high heels made entirely from ice and, attached to the back of her bodice is a long, transparent cape of sheer ice which is decorated with large snowflakes and sweeps the floor.

"Wow." Michael hears himself mumble. He instantly folds his lips in and looks around as if to find who had said that. He eases his way along the architrave closer to the thrown but makes sure to stay out of sight of the other guests.

The crowd applauses and Garther then introduces Princess Anna. There's a moment of delay before she comes running in holding her skirt.

Michael could tell she's very eccentric, optimistic, but awkward and far from elegant. She is notably goofy and highly active. Anna is a beautiful young girl with a slender figure and a fair complexion. She has glittering blue eyes, rosy cheeks, thin lips, long brown hair tied into two pigtail braids, bangs on the right side of her forehead, and a dusting of freckles; a trait she shares with her sister Elsa, even though Elsa appears to have less freckles than Anna does. Her face is slightly rounder than Elsa's, but still just as pretty.

Her dress is a black sweetheart bodice with off-the-shoulder dark green sleeves and rose, teal, blue and purple prints on it, and has greenish-gold lacing, a black satin-laced necklace with a bronze pendant of Arendelle's symbol, an olive drab skirt with sashes, both cream petticoat and bloomers, white stockings, a pair of black ballet shoes. A part of her hair is braided and used as a headband, a green comb-shaped barrette with a couple satin ribbons attached to her hair.

Michael rests an arm on his knee and gazes at the two sisters as they greet the crowd. The crowd awes and claps again as the sister mingle with patrons that come forth. The musicians start again and the crowd disperses to make room for the dancers. Michael presses against a thick column under an awning and watches as people yelped and flutter about. Other members stand in groups with glasses filled with wine and talk amongst one another. Dancers churned around them lie storm-tossed flowers, their heads held to either side as they whirled with abandonment.

Michael stays close to the wall and spots another vent that leads into the great hall. The entire hall was soaring and grand. It was blue and had crystal snowflakes hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling, wavering ever so slightly. Embroidered pillows and carpets lined the floor, while thick clouds of sweet smoke hazed the air. Lethargic courtiers sat, stooped, and stood around hookah pipes and bowls of smoking incense. A heavy perfume pervaded the space, making Michael dizzy. A young woman decked with white ostrich feathers and diamonds lay stretched on a divan. Her ivory slipper hanging from one toe, a glass of wine in each hand, she laughs hysterically as a tiny man in a green and yellow jester's costume took one false fall after another.

Nothing seems suspicious so Michael returns to the ballroom. Elsa is now dancing and mingling with guests, while Anna; is she dancing with a snowman? She giggles and spins with the little snowman and taps her feet to the rhythm of the music. Garther did say Elsa had special powers. But the ability to create life in inanimate things; that's, astounding.

Michael keeps his eyes on the guests as Elsa returns to the throne. Out of the corner of his eye, Michael sees a flicker of light in the crowd. He turns to find the guest wearing the fire suit heading towards the back of the room. Michael slinks further to the side, nearer to the Queen and draws his bow. As he watches the person enters the secret room. His heart jars in his chest and thanks himself for storing away the clothes; that should avoid his suspicion.

Keeping close to the wall, Michael shields behind a column as he watches the man crawl out of the vent wearing a dark, dark red armor. The armor is red and black, with many straps and buckles running down the chest and across the waist. There's a belt of daggers at his waist as well as a bow and sheath of arrows. He wears a black mask that covers all skin of his head, leaving his thick black hair exposed. The eyeholes have screen vision and Michael is weary at the sharp angles near the nose, too bulky to just be the shape of the nose. Built in filters? Starting along the jawline a flame design crawls up his temples and disappears into his hair.

Still no one takes notice as he draws his bow and readies an arrow broadhead arrow tip. Michael sings his own bow off his shoulders and loads it with a blunt arrow. With no point, these arrows are used to kill birds and small game without mangling. Cheap and simply made, the blunt arrow breaks on impact and is designed to interact with the environment at a distance, such as hitting a switch, without wasting more expensive options. They are excellent for simple distractions, thanks to their low cost.

As the assassin takes aim and pulls back the string, Michael pulls and shoots for the upper limb of the assassin's bow. Just as he releases the string it hits and knocks the arrow off course. The assassin grunts in shock.

The arrow shoots through the air and whizzes past Elsa's ear sticking to the back of the throne chair. All attention is drawn to the assassin and he slings his bow back over his back and leaps off the architrave diving for the crowd. People scream and scatter as the assassin hops across two of heads of the guests before landing in the middle of a circle of guards.

The first guard he spins kicks and knocks him out instantly. As another guard tries to even pull his sword the assassin grabs him by the forearm and throws him over and to the ground. Garther eases the sisters further back into the corner of the room. Another guard grabs the assassin from behind and as two more run towards him, he kicks his legs to the side, nailing both in the chest before wrenching himself free and spin kicking the guard holding him. When all are down, he draws two serrated daggers sprints towards the direction of the sisters.

Michael rounds to the other side of the room to being behind Garther and the Queen.

The assassin leaps in the air and raises his weapons.

"Elsa!" Anna screams.

Before he lands, another blunt arrow drives into his cheek. The assassin rolls with the momentum and comes up on one knee. The guests gasp and look in Michael's direction, though now he fully exposes himself with his sword drawn now. He stands with sword in hand and snarls through his mask.

The guests scream frantic again as Michael leaps off raising his sword. The assassin switches back to his bow and quickly shoots an arrow. Michael knocks it aside easily and their weapons clang. Michael instantly kicks the man in the stomach and with their weapons still in contact he pushes up and quickly grabs the man about the chest with his arm and hurls him to the floor. The assassin skips on his back before coming up on one knee, sliding across the polished floor.

"Well that was unexpected." He says. "I was told I'm handling this case alone."

"I'm not here to kill anyone." Michael replies.

Michael spins his sword in dizzying circles before aiming it at the assassin. The assassin in return loads an arrow in his bow.

"Bet you'll run out of arrows before I run out of sword." Michael says.

"You think you're a match for me?" the assassin mocks. "I can easily plant one right between your eyes."

"I'd like to see you try."

The assassin releases the arrow and begins speed-shooting. Michael blocks and slices every arrow aimed at him, spinning his blade in a stylized way as a form of mockery. More guards pour into the ballroom and surround the assassin and Michael.

"Hmm, this seems to have gotten a little too interesting." The assassin says.

Michael notices as he reaches behind him, a subtle gesture to the untrained eye. Michael can see a small ball between his thumb and forefinger. Michael lunges forward as a guard goes to shoot a crossbow arrow at the assassin. The assassin blocks the arrow and slams the ball to the ground causing a small explosion and eruption of smoke. The very second the smoke billows Michael leaps, expecting to glomp a body but comes out with nothing. He rolls and comes up on one knee looking around the room.

He manages to find one of the few French doors of the ballroom open. Michael ignores the calls of the guards and dashes forward. One guard steps in front of him and readies his sword. Michael spins his sword in dizzying circles between his hands before knocking the guard's weapons aside and runs up the guard's arm, pushing off and flipping high in the air and out onto the balcony.

His instincts propels him to the right and around a corner before he skids to a stop at a small patio setting. Tables covered in cloth with chairs set around them. Another set of doors with glass mosaics are closed, and vines of lavenders coil up and around the pergola. Michael grips his sword as he listens to the silence. There's a rustle of the leaves and Michael shoots a dagger at a small pot atop the rafter of the pergola. Someone yelps and the assassin follows from the gathering of floral. Michael sticks two more daggers into the sleeves and the boots of the assassin's uniform, and pulls out a third spinning it between his fingers.

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be a shadowy assassin, you're not very good at your job." Michael mocks.

The assassin struggles to pry his arms and legs loose as Michael approaches, standing to the side and placing his dagger to throat of the assassin.

"Who sent you?" Michael demands.

"I've been sworn to secrecy." He replies. "And you can't kill me without risk of losing the only source of information."

"Your value is for me to decide. I was hired to stop you and I did. I could kill you and leave with full payment, then still be hired again to stop another." Michael coldly chuckles. "You are worthless to me."

The assassin is about to reply, when the doors open and the guards from the dining hall of the castle pour out and around Michael again. Michael this time stands and sheaths his dagger; stepping aside to let the guards pry the daggers loose.

One guard approaches Michael. "Sir, with me please."

Michael nods and keeps his mask over his face as he follows the guard back inside, only to find at least seven more waiting inside with swords drawn.


	5. Chapter 4

Michael paces his cell the in the jail of the castle. He fights back his anger as best he can at the betrayal of Garther's words. He was told the guards were all informed of the 'situation', then after Michael takes down the assassin, he's led back into a room held at sword-point. He didn't put up a fight, just to show who side he was on.

Still he was led down to the dungeon and after the door slammed shut, the guards left. Michael turns when he reaches the wall. It's only been hours since the attack in the ballroom and already a staff member came to doctor Michael's wounds, and distribute a painkiller, and he's eaten, but no one has told him what's going on outside. No matter how forcefully he's asked them.

He thought Garther would've come by now. Michael drops to the edge of his cot. He had trusted Garther, and it's landed him in jail despite his constant reassurance. Still, Michael is trying to believe that once the mess clears and Garther explains himself to the Queen and Princess, which could take hours itself, things will be easier. They and the guests all saw him fighting the assassin, and even _he_ thought Michael was on his side. And Michael clearly said he wasn't there to kill anyone. They really have no means not to trust him. Whether it's to reassure himself or chastise his own thoughts of betrayal, Michael doesn't know.

Michael is still trying to trust Garther, but every part of him, every fiber and every nerve, is straining toward freedom, not just from this cell but from the prison of this city beyond it.

Maybe he never should've taken the job.

The dungeon is a dank, smelly pit carved out of the foundation of the castle. Individual cells are simply hollowed-out husks within the stone. The walls are slimy with moisture, iron bars block the view of wooden door's little window, and a few half-hearted torches burn along the aisle between cells. With the heavy-iron cuffs around his wrists, the chains loop through iron circles welded onto the back wall of the cell and restrict his ability to go more than halfway towards the door and to either side of the box of a room.

The guards didn't reprimand any of Michael's weapons nor bother to pat him down for them, so that can only tell that it probably won't take long to decide his fate. That can be both good and bad. But still like Garther, they had taken extreme measures to ensure that Michael was helpless, at least for their liking. Now given his fair share of misunderstandings, Michael easily picked his wrists free, but remained in the cell. Just another way of showing he's supposed to be good.

Heavy footsteps sound at the main entrance, and Michael looks up to see Garther, blazing torch in on hand. He stops in front of Michael's cell, and Michael keeps his expressions neutral.

"I . . ." Garther starts, but closes his mouth. "I, I'm sorry that -"

Michael stands and lets Garther see the cuffs fall and clang to the floor. This makes Garther clamp his mouth shut and a nervous look comes across his face. He swallows and clears his throat, determined to have his words sorted and out.

"Michael, please understand that I made sure that the guards on patrol at the party were well informed -"

Michael walks towards the door and in seconds he grabs a handful of Garther's scarf and his shirt and yanks his hand back, slamming Garther's face against the bars. The clang rings out throughout the jail and Michael jerks him twice more before he hauls his fist up bringing Garther eyelevel with him.

"So you said, but now look where I am." Michael's voice is low and raspy. Garther's eyes suddenly show the fear that Michael has seen so often in prey, and Michael snarls. "You said they were all informed, yet when I was brought back, they held me at sword-point and hauled me down here!"

Michael's voice rises. He doesn't know where the anger came from, except that he can feel it swirling around inside him, violent and vicious and the strongest he's felt all day. So he decides to feed it. He shoves Garther back and he stumbles to the floor.

"I am not a man to be crossed." Michael nearly growls.

Garther coughs and pushes himself to his feet. "I . . . I understand; and please know how sorry I am, sir." He stutters. "I, I guess that the guards were afraid to show it in front of the Queen -!"

"So they dragged me down here because they're _afraid_ to show that, plan, to the Queen?!" Michael roars.

"It's more complicated than that, sir Michael."

"The hell it is."

"It took some time to calm Princess Anna and to escort all the guests home. But I assure you, the Queen fully understands and trusts you."

"Then why the hell am I still here?"

Garther sighs. "The Queen is, grateful, that you saved her, and she has agreed to let you go, tomorrow morning."

Michael gives him a confused look. Then he tries to think. The guards didn't take his weapons. Was this supposed to be a test?

Michael sighs and steps back, sitting back down on his cot. "Can I at least get something to eat?" he snips.

"Your meal will be delivered shortly." Garther says, he takes out a small handkerchief and presses it to his forehead.

Michael sighs. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, Garther."

Garther looks to him surprised for a short moment. He presses the handkerchief to his forehead and when it comes away white, he gives Michael a small smile. "Quite alright, sir. I understand your frustration, and I promise I will make it up to you."

Michael coldly chuckles and shakes his head. "I don't deserve your kindness."

Garther only smiles and takes his leave. There's the bang of the door at the end of the main hall. As Michael goes to sit on the cot available in the cell, his thoughts drift to the assassin. No doubt he will be questioned, but where are they keeping him? This seems to be the only holding facility, and yet he has yet to see guards rag him down here as well. Perhaps he's left for conditions that are far worse?

Michael decides to examine his weapons, sharpen his blades with fallen bits of brick, line the fletches of his arrows and practice his form. Before long, a guard comes down and peeks through the bars of the door. Despite Garther's word of release, Michael can't help but feel bitterness towards the guards.

"Well if it isn't the shit-bucket I ordered." Michael sneers.

The guard's eyes narrow and the middle door pop open to reveal a tray of food.

Michael's nose wrinkles in disgust and approaches the door.

"And whatever _that_ is. Can't you lay some pasta for me?"

"This is a dungeon, not a bed and breakfast!" The guard snaps back. "You will eat whatever I bring!"

"You mean whatever the Queen tells you to bring." Michael replies.

The guard growls. "If her Majesty didn't need you, I'd teach you some manners."

"Oh really? And what does she need me for?" Michael quirks an eyebrow.

The guard clamps his lips together, realizing he made a mistake. "Just watch your tongue boy!"

He then storms off out of the dungeon.

Michael clicks his tongue and then grinned. With soft clinks, he twirls the keys on his finger. Course he could just pick the lock, but for some reason, the thought of showing the Queen how he easily acquired the keys from the guards seems a lot more satisfying. He pulls his mask over his face.

Slipping through the dungeon door, Michael glides through the halls and going by memory, he navigates his way through the castle up to the throne room where he hears voices muffle through the walls. He slinks to the one wall and peeks out.

Of the voices, Garther's is the first he recognizes. "Your majesty, please understand. We did this for your own good."

He hears a female's frustrated sigh and the pacing of heels against the wood floor.

"Please let me explain."

"Okay . . . okay." Another sigh. Then there's a shift of fabric and Michael watches her sit on the throne chair.

Michael listens closely and hears a thick cracking sound. His eyes flick to the floor and he sees the polished wood fading in color, a shite dusting of thin ice permeating over it.

"Explain yourself." Elsa demands, either not caring or not paying attention to the ice that forms beneath her feet.

"Y-Your majesty, Michael is an elite master of the shadows. He's a thief of the greater good." Garther stutters to say. "He's very good in what he does -"

"And what would that be?!" Anna interrupts. "Stealing?! Killing?!"

"Anna, please." Elsa's stern tone overpowers.

"If you recall, your majesties, Michael said to the assassin that he wasn't there to kill anyone. And he came along with the guards quietly and without hassle." Garther reminds.

"What is Michael's back story? What exactly do you know about him?" Elsa interrogates.

"Uh well, that's where it gets, touchy your majesty." Garther's tone stiffens. "He, he's had a rough past. And this is just from mere observation, he explains little to none, and out of respect I didn't pry."

"Oh well! That's very promising!" Anna squeaks again.

"I'm sorry, your majesties, no disrespect. But Michael seems like the kind of man who is, highly dedicated to what he does; and if he wanted to kill you at the party, he wouldn't have even shot that arrow at the assassin." Garther says.

"Garther," Elsa's voice chimes. "I understand why you did this, however that doesn't overlook the fact that you brought a stranger – whom of which you know little about – into the castle against my better judgment."

"Yes, your majesty."

"A-and how do you know he won't betray you in the end? What is it about a main dressed in black and leather that seems so trusting?!" Anna says.

"Well for one thing, he surrendered. He lowered his weapons . . ." Michael now is leaning against the doorframe, spinning the guard's keys on his pointer finger. "Oh, and he broke out of the jail without picking the lock or harming a guard."

The room falls silent and the air thickens as Michael can sense the girls' fear spike. He quickly notices the large man from before with the reindeer and a, snowman, next to the throne chair. Princess Anna screams and instantly runs behind the man.

Michael steps into the room and tosses Garther the keys. He keeps his gaze on Queen Elsa, who sits with such a stiff posture, it seems like her spine is replaced by a steel bar. Michael watches her breathing. It's long and her shoulders move with a slight shudder.

She's scared.

Michael walks with a rather, cocky attitude at how he has such easy fear gripped on the Queen. Still he acts the way he was raised, while carefully adding body language hints that the Queen should hopefully catch on.

For example, he stands fifteen feet in front of the throne, giving the Queen and her sister their space. For him, that his symbol for, "I'm giving you your space, to show you that I respect you and understand that you don't trust me". It's like showing them how of little value they appear to him.

Michael pulls his mask off and gives the Queen a soft smile. He the proceeds to bow and say, "Your Majesty."

"How, how did-! You! How did you?!" Anna stutters.

"If you let me, I can explain and answer your questions, to an extent." Michael carefully phrases. "First being that I'm not here to kill you."

Anna and Elsa exchange glances and Elsa sighs. "Fine."

"What?! Elsa!"

"Anna, something is going on here, and if Michael can shed some light on this, then what else to we have to lose?" Elsa reasons.

Anna sighs and consents to her sister. She goes to stand next to the throne, still eyeing Michael wearily.

"So, Michael, what can you tell us about yourself." Elsa asks.

"Depends on what you want to know."

Elsa exhales heavily. "I want to know why you're here."

"Well that answer can be divided in one of two reasons. I was hired by your butler here to protect you, and to figure out if someone's trying to have you killed. Which seems to be true, so I can check that off the list." Michael slyly says.

"Okay, so now, what is it you do?" she then proceeds to ask.

"Hmmm," Michael ponders trying to find the right words. What he does isn't and, but for others it could still be seen as crime. Plus with the bounty put out from his old kingdom, it can easily reach him should he remove his hood. "I guess you can call me a bounty hunter."

"You 'guess'?" Anna instantly questions. "See, I don't know about this guy Elsa. . ."

"Anna." Elsa calmly silences her. "How so?" she directs towards Michael.

"I hunt down those who do wrong and after roughing them up, I let the guards take care of them. Though unfortunately, sometimes, I need to take the law into my own hands."

Elsa's lips press into a tight line as she ponders. She doesn't have much to go off of, and they both know that, and despite Michael wanting to tell her everything, his reputation will tarnish in turn of earning her trust. She only has his skills and presentation to go off of.

"Whoever is plotting your assassination could have minions hiding in your kingdom, perhaps even servants in your own castle. Now I'm not saying this to discourage you or make you paranoid. From who was hired, I'd say they're armatures. But that only means they'll learn from their mistakes and improve." Michael explains.

Elsa sits erect while Anna leans her hip against the throne.

"From years of experience, I can safely say that these dealings are down and dirty. I know my way around those kind of people and places. I can help you. And all I ask in return is pay, your allegiance, and your trust." Michael bends to one knee and lowers his head. "If you allow it, I will protect you with my life, your majesty."

He keeps his head low as Elsa and Anna exchange looks. Anna's guard seems to have dropped an inch, her face now softer with concern and debate. Elsa rises from her throne.

"Very well. I will see through that you have full access and privileges in our kingdom. I'll also notify the guards of your new title. Wouldn't want them thinking you're part of the common rabel now."

Michael raises his head. "I thank you, your majesty."

"But I have a request." Elsa holds up her hand, palm up. "I wish to join you."

The entire room goes silent and compared with Anna, Kristoff and Garther's shocked faces, Michael only raises an eyebrow in surprise.

"I'll not stand idly by while an assailant slander's my name and slaughter's my sister. Those are the conditions I require if you wish to roam my kingdom free and without bounty."

Michael looks into her eyes, and despite the concern he sees, her determination blazes within her; a flame forged in love and sacrifice, a rather polar counterpart to her normal element.

Michael nods. "Very well. I grant your request. But you will be at my side at all times. My life is not safe, Queen Elsa, as you will soon discover. But know that regardless of the risk, will bring you with me."

"I'm not scared." Elsa says.

"Even I am sometimes afraid, as will you often be."

The Queen shakes her head.

"Scared or not," she says, staring him in the eyes. "I will now show it."

A foolish boats, one Michael has heard a thousand times. But looking at the woman, seeing her resolve and courage, Michael knew without a doubt that he believes her.


End file.
